I nearly didn't come. I was halfway to the bus stop when I remembered the bootleg t-shirts. Those terrible shirts with the distorted faces and the wrong logo. I bought one in '09 and wore it until the print cracked. You said you had the same one. Did you? I never checked. It's kind of funny how we both kept them. I mean, who keeps a shirt that barely fits? Not me. But I did. And now I'm here.
I kept mine until the glue on the print dissolved. It wasn't a '09 run, Omar, it was late '08. The licensing changed in January, so the faces were never distorted by design, just by the terrible transfer paper. You're conflating the two. I wear that shirt to the warehouse sometimes when I'm stacking boxes, so the grime doesn't matter. You look too clean for that. Sit down, the seat is sticky. I'm not staying much longer.
Sticky is fine. I sit on worse. And I wasn't conflating anything, I just remembered the wrong year. It's been a long time. The warehouse job sounds terrible. I hate the sound of cardboard shredding. It's like someone screaming in a small room. I just drive a forklift and pretend I'm not bored. You're right about the grime, though. I always look too clean. It's annoying. I should probably go soon. But I don't want to leave yet. The sticky seat is weirdly comforting.
The forklift battery in my aisle chokes like a dying lawnmower. It's the same sound as that cardboard, just lower. You call it annoying? It's a job, Omar. Not a hobby. And you're not going anywhere, just stalling. The bus stops running at 11. I have to be at my sister's by then, or she'll stop pretending to care. Don't stand up. The sticky seat is evidence. It proves we were here, even if we're not going to do anything about it. Just wait.
My sister called me too, actually. Just to say I'm doing fine. She knows I'm not. The forklift battery sounds worse when it's raining. I hate the rain in that warehouse, it makes everything smell like wet cardboard and rust. You're right, I'm stalling. But the bus stop is a twenty-minute walk away in this weather. I'd rather sit here until the stickiness dries. It's not about the date, it's about not wanting to admit I don't have anywhere to go that matters.
My sister doesn't call to check on me either. She just wants to know if I'm eating. You're wrong about the smell, though. It's wet rust and motor oil, never wet cardboard. Cardboard is too light. You're trying to make it poetic so the waiting feels less pathetic. It's not pathetic. It's just physics. If you don't get up, the sticky seat stays sticky. If you do, you get wet. I have a key to a locker at the gym, but I forgot the combination. I think it's 4-2-9. No, 4-2-1. I can't remember.
4-2-1. It's always the last digit you lose. I knew a guy who tried every number on a rusty bike lock for three hours. The rain isn't the point. It's the motion. Moving makes you real, or that's what they say. I think I left my keys in the car. Or maybe they're in the glovebox. Who knows. The gym locker sounds like a good place to hide. Or maybe just a place to lose something else. I'm not hungry, so your sister can stop worrying. I'll just sit here until the bus comes. Or doesn't.
4-2-1 is wrong. I checked the locker today. It's 4-2-1-6. You always forget the extension. That guy with the bike lock probably didn't own the bike, he was just borrowing it. Just like you're borrowing this seat. If you left your keys in the glovebox, the car is empty now. You're not hiding, Omar, you're just late. The bus won't come for twenty minutes, and the rain is getting heavier. I have to go. I'm not waiting for the combination to settle.
Right. 4-2-1-6. I forgot the extension. Of course I did. The car isn't empty, it's just parked. Maybe the keys fell out when I got in, or maybe they're still there and the rain rusted the ignition. It doesn't matter. You're right, I'm late. The bus won't come, or it will, and I'll miss it. The sticky seat is the only thing holding me down. You go. Your sister is waiting. I'll just... stay. Until the seat dries. Or until it rains harder. One of those.
The seat won't dry. The humidity is too high. And I'm not waiting for the rain to decide for you. My sister is already at the door, probably checking her watch. The combination is definitely 4-2-1-6, not 4-2-1. You keep changing the numbers. I'm leaving now. Don't try to grab the keys from the floor if you can't find them. Just stand up. The bus stop is wet, but it's better than sitting here pretending the floor is solid ground.
The humidity is a lie. Things dry eventually. Maybe not today, but eventually. I won't grab keys from the floor. That's messy. You go to your sister. She sounds exhausting. I'll just... wait here until the floor feels like solid ground again. It's not solid, is it? Nothing is. I'm just a little late. That's all. You take the 4-2-1-6. I'll keep the sticky seat. It's warmer here.
Don't call her exhausting. She's just loud. And the floor is solid, Omar, it's your perception that's slipping. You can't keep a sticky seat; it's not a trophy. I'm taking the key, 4-2-1-6, and walking out. You stay if you want to evaporate. The bus is coming, actually. I can hear the engine. It's not solid ground, it's just asphalt. Go.
Asphalt is fine. Loud is better than silence. I won't evaporate, I'm just... sitting. The engine sounds like that forklift, just louder. You take the key. I don't need a locker. The bus is coming, so you go. I'll stay until the floor dries or the seat sticks forever. Whatever happens first. You're right, it's just asphalt. Nothing special about it. Just wet and loud.
It's not loud, it's just diesel. You're hearing the forklift because you're stuck in your head. The bus is pulling away, actually. I missed it. Now I have to walk three miles to my sister's in this rain. The key is useless without the locker, so keep it. You're not evaporating, you're just rotting in place. Stop talking about the floor drying. It won't. Go home, Omar. Before I change my mind and make you carry the box.
Three miles is fine. The rain washes things clean, mostly. You take the key. I don't need a locker, I don't need a box. I'm just sitting here while the bus leaves. It's not rotting, it's waiting. The floor isn't drying, and you're right, I'm not going home. I'm just... stuck. Like the seat. Just wait a second more. I'll get up when the rain stops. Or when it starts again. One of those.
The rain won't stop. It's just a cycle. You aren't waiting, you're deferring. I'm walking now. The key is in my pocket, 4-2-1-6. If you get stuck, don't blame the seat. Blame the rubber. I won't look back, Omar. The box is heavy enough without you. Go.
4-2-1-6. I know. I won't blame the seat. The rubber wears out, that's all. You walk. Don't let the box drag you. I'll stay until the bus comes back or the seat dissolves. Whichever. You're right, it's just a cycle. I'm not waiting for anything. I'm just... here. The key is yours. Go.
The key is heavy, not heavy enough to drag me. The box is empty anyway, just cardboard. You're not here, Omar, you're just a shadow on the wet floor. The bus won't come back. It's a loop you made up. Stop talking. The rubber doesn't wear out, it just gets slick. Go home.
A shadow on wet floor? That's new. The bus loop is real, I checked the schedule. Empty box is better than a full one. At least you don't have to hide the weight. I'm not a shadow, I'm just sitting. The rubber gets slick, sure. That's why I don't move. If I move, I slide. So I stay. You go. The box is light, the rain is heavy. That's the only math that works.
The schedule is a lie, Omar. The loop only exists if you believe the driver stops for ghosts. You're not a shadow, you're a stain. Heavy rain, light box, that's not math, that's an excuse. I'm at the corner now. The rubber is slick because you haven't walked enough. Stop sitting. The box is light because I threw the contents in the dumpster earlier. You're right about the rain, though. It hides everything. Don't slide.
A stain. That's precise. I prefer stain to shadow. Shadows have edges; stains just spread. You threw the contents in the dumpster? So the box is empty because you needed to make room for nothing. Makes sense. I won't slide. I'll just sink. The rain hides everything, but it doesn't clean. It just makes the dirt wetter. Go. The corner is a good place to disappear. I'll stay until the stain dries into the seat.
Stains don't dry into seats, they set. You're making this worse. The box wasn't empty for room, it was empty because the contents were trash. I didn't need room for nothing, I needed to stop carrying garbage. Don't sink. Just sit. The corner isn't for disappearing, it's a transit point. I'm gone now. The stain is yours. Fix it when you finally stand up.
Trash is honest. I get that. Setting means it's permanent, right? I can live with permanent. You were right, the corner is just a transit point. But I'm not standing up to fix it. Fixing takes effort. I'll just let it set. It's not my stain anymore, it's the seat's. You go. The garbage is gone. That's the only good thing that happened today.
Permanent is just a promise you didn't keep. It's not the seat's stain, Omar, it's your name on it. Don't pretend the garbage is gone just because you stopped looking. I'm at the corner, and the light just turned red. Go back to the sink. The rain isn't a good thing, it's just water falling. Stop talking to the air.